


Was a Fairytale They Say

by Slantedlight (BySlantedlight)



Series: Older Lads [4]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 16:18:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2818466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BySlantedlight/pseuds/Slantedlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From my older lads universe - a wee snippet between <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1353337">Two on a Treasure Island</a> and what comes next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Was a Fairytale They Say

Bodie slid out of the car, dragging his briefcase behind him, took a deep breath in the sharp night air, and nearly sneezed when a snowflake slid into his mouth and another tickled his nose. 

Of all the Christmases to snow in London, it had to be this one - their last one. Higher Downsea was waiting for them, this time in a few days they’d be on their way… and it had snowed, the heaviest, earliest snow England had seen for years.

Retiring…

Their flat was nearly packed, and even from outside, even late at night when the world was quiet, the curtains drawn, and all he could see was the square of light above the front door, it felt… empty. Doyle was in there, so it was as far from empty as could be – he’d have music on, or the telly, and it was his turn to cook so no doubt the kitchen would be steaming and boiling away, but… but it was steaming and boiling for the last time, and the pans would have to be washed and stacked into the last boxes, rather than put cosily away where they belonged…

He didn’t want to go inside, not yet. He wanted to pretend that nothing had changed, to go back in time and… But you couldn’t go back in time. He leaned against the car, gazed around at the quiet night. Someone had made a set of tiny snowmen on the garden wall next door, two big ones and a family of four smaller ones. There was even a blob at the end that was probably meant to be the cat - _Willis_ , Bodie remembered, having been pleased to watch it chased up a tree by a passing dog one fine, sunny Saturday not too long ago.

He didn’t want to go inside.

After a moment, taking another deep breath, and smiling just a little, he stepped through the gate into their own front garden, tucked his briefcase into the porch, and turned back to eye the snow. There should be enough…

It was easy to make the body, even to turn it into a pair of legs with trainers at the bottom - well, more blobs, but he knew they were trainers - and then a torso above it. The snow was just right, dry but not too dry, wet but not... Head next, and he moulded a nose that he was quite proud of, found a couple of pebbles for eyes, scrabbled for twigs and even managed eyebrows, and a mouth. Just inside the flat, hanging on the coat rack, was just the right scarf, and then all it needed… He patted at the snow for a while, experimenting with shapes, and lots of tiny snowballs, and eventually… yeah. 

“What the ‘ell’s that – ghost of Christmas past?”

Bodie turned. “Depends – you got me Christmas present, yet?”

“It’s waiting for you inside...” Doyle leered cheerfully at him, bounded down the steps two at a time, with distinct disregard for life, limb or the potential serious bruising of his best asset if he slipped, and stood staring critically at the snowman. “I like the holster.”

Bodie nodded smugly. “Had to have a holster.”

“Bit precipitous with the hair, weren’t you?” He flicked a finger at the miniature snowballs clinging precariously to the top of the creature, perfect snow-white curls. “Reminds me, I should ‘ave ‘ad it cut before we go…”

“Leave it,” Bodie suggested, and maybe there was something in his voice, because Doyle moved a little closer, shifted until their shoulders were touching. “Besides, you’re colour-blind, if that’s you thirty years ago, then you’re only just going grey…”

“You… Didn’t go grey until I met you, you know, then it was a slippery slope…”

“Well, the stress of keeping up…”

Doyle shot him a look, all raised eyebrows and disdain, then looked back at the snowman. “You know there’s something missing.”

“With my snowman? He’s perfect! Go round the other side, look…” Bodie dragged him around, pointed to the square he’d painstakingly etched into the snow with a twig. “That’s those jeans you used to wear.”

Doyle stared for a moment, then laughed suddenly out loud, throwing his head back so that the sound flew out above the streets, over the whole of London, perhaps, and Bodie grinned, because he had to.

“Nah, still something missing…”

“What? What is…?” Bodie watched as Doyle crouched down, began to gather snow in towards himself, to pat it together into… another snowman. 

After a while, teeth chattering from standing still and looking on, Bodie bent to help him, gathered more pebbles, more twigs, and some for short, straight hair this time, managed another holster whilst Doyle was…

“You can’t do that!” he managed, feeling himself start to blush, because after all their snowmen faced the street outside, and anyone could look through the railings of the fence.

“Course I can,” Doyle said, unrepentant, and patting the snow a little more firmly into place. If that’s my patched jeans, then these are your cream cords - d’you remember them? Bloody pricktease.”

“Alright, pot, you wanna watch what you’re saying, you know…” He eyed the carefully positioned - and quite sizeable, he was pleased to see - bulge. It’d probably fall off before morning anyway… though that made him wince too, now he thought about it…

“Is that your teeth chattering?” Doyle was beside him again suddenly, looking their creations up and down. “How long ‘ave you been out here?”

“Just taking a last look around,” Bodie said, wishing it didn’t sound so defensive. Nothing wrong with missing somewhere that’d been home for years, after all… Especially, he realised, when it was your first one that counted.

Doyle leaned in to him again, even though they were outside, in the middle of the garden, and anyone could look down from the flats, or across from the road, and see them. Cold fingers curled around his and squeezed lightly. “I know.”

And he did, Doyle did, and it was okay because when he moved Doyle would be moving with him, and they’d have a new home, another one that counted.

“Not likely to get much snow in Higher Downsea,” Doyle said, reading his mind. 

Bodie shook his head sadly. “Too many coastal breezes…. You know, if that’s you in your jeans and me in me cords, there’s still something missing.”

“Yeah…” 

And that was sad too, and long-missed. He looked away from the snowmen again, looked at Doyle, at Doyle who knew, and then together, teeth chattering in the crisp night air, newly fallen flakes beginning to dust their clothes, they set together to make a Cowley, three of them to watch over the whole of the London night, just as they always had.

 

_December 2011_


End file.
